


The Art of Making Toast

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has bronchitis, leaving Holmes at loose ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Making Toast

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to pharis for providing, as always, fantastically helpful beta with equal measures of insightful advice and squeeful cheerleading. You're the best!

“The toast is cold,” Watson said.

After a moment, Holmes glanced up from the newspaper, but he did not respond.

Watson was having a difficult morning. He had risen from his bed more tired than when he fell into it, and he felt achy even though the weather was not damp. His head ached too. Then when he came to breakfast, he found Holmes in an unusually docile mood—just when it would have done Watson good to have someone to bicker with.

“Mrs. Hudson is a more than competent housekeeper,” Watson continued. “But she can’t seem to get the toast up here while it’s still warm enough to melt the butter.”

Holmes looked up again, this time frowning slightly. “Perhaps marmalade instead of butter?” he suggested and returned his attention to his paper.

The thought cheered Watson slightly, and he reached for the dish only to find less than a spoonful of preserves left. He looked over at Holmes’ plate and scowled when he saw a slice of toast there, loaded with marmalade. Holmes had left it untouched after only a couple of bites.

Watson glared at Holmes’ laden, uneaten toast. Holmes did not seem to notice, so Watson gave up with a sigh, scraping up the last bit of marmalade and spreading it in a thin layer over the bread. He took a bite, then threw it down on the plate.

“Something amiss?” Holmes asked after a pointed pause.

“Nothing tastes as it should,” Watson complained. He looked up to find Holmes staring at him, looking mildly amused.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said. “Are you perfectly all right?”

“I’m fine,” Watson answered, feeling annoyed at the question. “Why?”

Holmes regarded Watson from under raised eyebrows. “You don’t seem quite yourself this morning.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Holmes did not answer. He stared at Watson for a moment, clearly concerned, then folded his paper, tucked it under his arm, and left the room.

After sitting at the table for several long minutes without moving, Watson reached over and plucked the toast off of Holmes’ plate. It was cold too, of course, but the extra marmalade made it a bit more palatable. He poured himself a cup of tea—at least it was hot, and it soothed his throat. He had not realized that his throat was sore until the discomfort waned. Watson fervently hoped he was not coming down with something.

*****

After seeing his last patient of the day to the door, Watson slowly climbed back up the steps to his consulting room. He was exhausted. He was definitely in the first stages of some kind of vicious cold, or perhaps influenza, and it had been all he could do to make it through all of his appointments. He should have seen this coming—he had been feeling tired for several days. Falling into the chair at his desk, Watson scrawled a quick note to a colleague asking him to take his patients the next day. Watson needed rest. A fit of coughing seized him, and when it passed he let his head fall onto his arm on the desk. He knew he could easily fall asleep there, but he also knew he would be better off in bed.

Watson pulled himself out of his chair and walked unsteadily out to the landing, leaving his note on a side table where Mrs. Hudson would see it. He could trust her to send it for him. The flight of stairs up to the bedrooms had never seemed so steep. He struggled up to his room, pulling off most of his clothing before collapsing into bed, shivering. He pulled the blankets up around his neck, but it was not enough to warm him. Watson closed his eyes and willed himself to stop shaking. Then he heard the front door slam and Holmes’ quick feet on the stairs.

“Watson?” Holmes was calling from the sitting room.

Watson did not answer. He lay silent in his bed, praying that Holmes would go away. Watson felt another fit of coughing coming on, and he could not suppress it. He coughed until he could feel his face reddening, and by the time he fell back onto his pillow Holmes was in the bedroom doorway.

“Watson? What on earth is the matter?”

“I’m sick.”

“I can see that, but—”

“For pity’s sake, Holmes, leave me be. I need to rest.”

Holmes approached the bed, frowning. He put a tentative hand on Watson’s forehead. “You’re feverish.”

Watson swatted the hand away. “What, are you a doctor now, as well?”

“Of course not, but—”

“I only need to sleep.”

Holmes put his hand on Watson’s shoulder. “But perhaps—”

“Holmes,” Watson warned, shrugging off the hand.

“I simply—”

“Bugger off and let me sleep!”

Holmes looked wounded by the words, and Watson regretted them the moment they were uttered, but they did have the desired effect of chasing Holmes from the room. Watson told himself he should not have to be concerned about the hurt feelings of vain, self-important detectives when he was so very ill. He closed his eyes and tried again to still the feverish shaking that gripped him.

The sound of Holmes’ returning footsteps made Watson open his eyes, ready to bark again if necessary. Holmes carried a blanket in his hands, which he spread over Watson’s quilt. Then he turned and left the room without a word, and Watson was finally able to stop shivering and fall asleep.

*****

Watson passed a perfectly horrible night, unable to stop coughing for long enough to get any real rest. It was almost dawn before exhaustion overtook him and allowed him to finally fall into a deep sleep. By the time he awoke, the morning was mostly gone. He sat up and immediately started to cough. Holmes appeared at the door, a teacup in one hand and a thick book in the other, his finger marking his place. He crossed the room and silently handed the cup to Watson.

“Thank you, Holmes,” Watson said sheepishly. His behavior to Holmes yesterday had been abysmal. He tried to apologize, but the words were overtaken by more coughing. Holmes took the teacup so that it would not spill, giving it back to Watson once the cough had quieted. Watson took a sip. The tea was perfect—just hot enough and sweetened with honey. “Thank you,” Watson said again, feeling foolish.

Holmes did not answer.

Watson looked at the book Holmes was carrying and thought he recognized it. “Is that from my office?”

“Oh, this is… It’s nothing.”

Watson grabbed the book, opening it to the page Holmes had been holding. Watson skimmed the page, almost laughing when he read a description of the symptoms of tuberculosis.

“Are you trying to diagnose me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holmes said, but he would not meet Watson’s eye.

“I don’t have consumption. I’m not dying.” Watson again stifled his laughter. He knew Holmes hated to be laughed at.

“I did not think that you were,” Holmes said. His speech was curt, but he was looking at Watson rather earnestly.

Watson felt unexpectedly touched by Holmes’ concern and decided to adopt his most reassuring bedside manner. “I’m fine. I have some kind of upper respiratory infection, and—” Rather than comforting Holmes, these words made his eyes widen in alarm, so Watson quickly rephrased. “It’s a bad cold, Holmes. That’s all.”

Holmes nodded, but he did not appear convinced.

“I’ll rest for a day or two, and then I’ll be as good as new,” Watson insisted. “I’ll finish this tea, then I’ll lie down again.”

Again Holmes nodded, but rather than leave the room he turned and sat down in the armchair in the corner, tucking up his feet and pulling his knees to his chest. Watson had no idea what else to say, so he simply drank his tea while Holmes watched.

“I could fetch you something to eat,” Holmes offered.

Watson shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“What can I do then, to make you more comfortable?” Holmes asked. He sounded almost petulant.

“Nothing,” Watson said.

“I could read to you,” Holmes said. “Last night I was reading a very well written monograph describing the analysis of fingerprints.”

“That _is_ what you would read for pleasure, isn’t it? Even if you were ill. I’d prefer something more relaxing. Perhaps a novel?”

Holmes snorted. “You know my opinion of those so-called detectives—”

“It doesn’t have to be a detective novel. It could be a story where nothing is stolen,” Watson pointed out. “Where no one is murdered.”

Holmes sighed.

“But honestly, I don’t need you to entertain me. I simply want to rest.”

Holmes frowned. Burrowing back into his bed, Watson realized how irritating it must be for Holmes, facing a problem he could do nothing to solve.

Holmes stood and hovered for a few moments in the middle of the carpet before padding out of the room.

*****

Watson’s cough woke him up again, all too soon. Almost immediately, Holmes was at his side, gazing down with that same worried, helpless expression. This time Watson felt irritated rather than pleased by Holmes’ attention.

“Mrs. Hudson sent up some soup for you,” Holmes said, walking to the bedside table where a plate had been overturned on a bowl to keep its contents warm.

Wanting to discourage conversation, Watson tried to give a noncommittal grunt, but the attempt only set him off coughing yet again.

“Tea?” Holmes offered hopefully. He picked up the pot and started to pour a cup.

Watson shook his head.

Holmes set down the teapot and stood silently next to the bed.

“I only want to sleep,” Watson said.

“A-ha!” Holmes said, holding up one finger and then sprinting out of the room.

Watson sighed. He hoped whatever idea had struck Holmes was not terribly bothersome. He tried to get back to sleep, but he found he could not for anticipating Holmes’ return. It seemed that he was gone a very long time. When Holmes reached the top of the stairs, Watson could see him through the open door. He carried a basin in one hand and a few towels in the other. He set the things on the dresser and bent to pull a pair of clean pyjamas out of the drawer.

“I thought you might like to wash,” Holmes explained as he straightened.

Watson closed his eyes before Holmes turned around. “Perhaps later.”

“If you wait too long the water will grow cold,” Holmes said quietly.

Watson said nothing and waited for Holmes to leave, but there was no movement in the room. He opened his eyes a slit. “Would you mind closing the door on your way out?” He shut his eyes again so that he would not have to see Holmes’ injured expression.

“Of course, old boy,” Holmes answered, his voice clipped. “Sleep well.”

Once he heard the door latch click, Watson opened his eyes and sighed. After lying still for several minutes, Watson started to pull himself out of bed. He probably would feel better after cleaning himself up and putting on fresh pyjamas. Standing long enough to wash and change exhausted him, and he fell back into bed as soon as he was finished. A moment later he heard Holmes’ violin. It was an actual melody rather than just aimless musical wanderings, and Watson knew that Holmes was playing for him. Watson shook his head, but the music made him smile, in spite of himself. He fell asleep picturing Holmes in his cluttered room, playing to an audience that consisted solely of a closed door.

*****

Throughout the afternoon and evening, Watson dozed in his bed, waking to cough and then toss and turn. Every time he coughed, he could hear Holmes’ footsteps in the hall. It was obvious that Holmes was checking in on him, and he tried not to let it bother him. 

Watson did not fully wake until his brain was alarmed by the unmistakable smell of something burning. He jumped out of bed. A glance showed Holmes’ room to be vacant, so Watson stumbled down the stairs. He threw open the sitting room door, and the smell intensified. The air was thick with smoke.

“Holmes!”

“Watson,” Holmes answered. “Why are you out of bed?”

“I thought you were burning the house down!”

“Not at all,” Holmes said. “Only the toast.”

“Toast?” Watson crossed the room to open a window. The sky was dark, but Watson had no idea of the time—probably the wee hours. Watson saw Holmes’ dressing gown draped over a chair and pulled it on, tying it snugly against the chill. Then he collapsed onto the sofa. He looked over to where Holmes was sitting in front of the fire, cross-legged on the rug, holding a fencing foil on which was skewered a blackened piece of bread. “Why are you burning toast?”

“It was not my intent. I am attempting to determine the optimal placement of the bread, the best intensity of flame, and the precise time to allow for a perfectly toasted slice of bread.”

“But why?” Watson asked again, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Holmes looked over his shoulder at Watson. “It bothered you that your toast is always cold.”

The answer surprised Watson into speechlessness. Holmes was forever throwing himself into one experiment or another, but never had Watson himself been part of the motivation. From the number of charred slices that lay scattered about the hearth, Watson could see that Holmes had been at it for some time, yet the object of these trials was not an important chemical reagent or some grand theory of criminology. He simply wanted to make Watson a decent piece of toast. Watson caught himself smiling at Holmes fondly.

Holmes deposited the burned toast with the others on the floor and crawled over to the table in front of the sofa, where a platter of bread waited with several other plates and bowls. He impaled one slice and brought it back to the fire, propping the epée up against a footstool to adjust its angle. Watson’s attention drifted back to the crowded tabletop, and he noticed something surprising.

“Are those strawberries?” Watson asked in disbelief, sitting upright. It was much too early for strawberries, but there they sat in one of Mrs. Hudson’s china bowls.

Holmes turned. “I know that you’re fond of them.”

“Wherever did you get them?” Watson leaned over the table and picked up one of the largest berries.

A small, smug smile was Holmes’ only response.

The ridiculousness of Holmes trying to find foods to tempt him to eat, of Holmes trying to make him take better care of himself, was not lost on Watson, but he did not care to think about it. He raised the strawberry and inhaled. The scent was wonderful—like summer. He took a bite. His mouth puckered, and he clenched his eyes shut.

“Are they not good?” Holmes asked, rushing over to pick up one of the berries and examine it.

“Just a bit… tart,” Watson explained. In truth, it was horribly sour, but Watson did not want to seem unappreciative of Holmes’ gift. He chewed and swallowed but did not take another bite.

“Here,” Holmes said.

He opened the sugar bowl and rolled the strawberry in the sugar to coat it. Then he offered the berry to Watson. Without thinking, Watson bent and took the strawberry into his mouth. His lips brushed Holmes’ fingertips. Holmes gasped, and Watson’s eyes snapped up. Holmes was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open. They both froze in place for a moment. Watson bit through the fruit and pulled away, leaving Holmes holding the half with the stem. There was a long uncomfortable silence, during which the tightness in Watson’s chest built until he could no longer contain it. He exploded in a fit of coughing more intense than any he had experienced yet that day. In a split second, Holmes was next to Watson, arm about his waist, murmuring incomprehensible soothing words into his ear.

When the coughing subsided, Watson fell back, exhausted. Holmes’ arm was trapped between Watson’s back and the sofa cushion, but neither made a move to pull away. Instead Holmes leaned close and rested his forehead on Watson’s temple. Watson closed his eyes. He knew Holmes’ proximity should be strange and shocking, but it felt only comfortable. Restful. When Holmes tilted his head and placed a kiss on Watson’s cheek, that was not surprising either—it was only natural.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes murmured into his ear. How many times had Holmes uttered that exact phrase? Somehow this time it sounded very different, and it made Watson’s breath catch. “We must get you well.”

As Holmes spoke his free hand came to rest on Watson’s chest. The gesture, combined with that something extra in his tone, that subtle note of promise, surprised Watson. He felt himself becoming aroused. He was shocked at himself, and his body tensed. Holmes immediately noted the difference and started to withdraw. Watson put out one hand to stop him, but suddenly Holmes jumped up from the sofa, dashing to the fireplace. The bread he had left there was black and smoking. He picked up the foil, displayed the black toast to Watson with a rueful smile, and then pushed the toast off onto the floor with the others. He stepped over to the table to get another slice of bread. 

Watson waited to speak until Holmes was occupied at the fireplace. “How long…” he began, but then he paused. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “How is it possible—? Or rather, why—?”

“Let me help you, shall I?” Holmes said with a note of bitterness. “How long? I’ve felt this way ever since I’ve known you. How is it possible that you never knew? Because I did not wish for you to know. Why did I never tell you? Because I was not at all certain—” Holmes broke off and sighed. “I know you best of any person in the world, but I could not predict how you would react.”

Watson tried to say something comforting, to explain, but instead he coughed.

“Come. You’re not well. Let’s not say another word about it. Not now.”

“Holmes…”

“Please,” Holmes said quietly, not looking at Watson as he brought his epée to the table, dropping an only slightly charred slice of toast onto a plate. Holmes slid the butter dish across the table, so Watson picked up a knife. He thought it should be soothing to do such an everyday thing as spreading butter on toast, but he felt so very aware of Holmes, who was climbing up to sit slumped at the other end of the sofa. He wondered how long could they pretend that nothing unusual was happening. He took a bite of his toast, which was nicely warm if too crisp, with the butter melted just as he had wanted. He felt Holmes’ eyes on him and turned to thank him, but Holmes looked away, taking more berries from the bowl and rolling them in sugar. This time he set them on a plate.

*****

The next three days were maddening. Watson could think of nothing but Holmes’ voice in his ear, Holmes’ arm about his waist, Holmes’ hand coming to rest on his chest. But Holmes himself was nowhere to be found. He seemed to have disappeared after their midnight picnic and the awkward parting that followed. Watson berated himself for not speaking up that night, even though Holmes had asked him not to, but he had been so ill. The idea of Holmes, wandering the city streets, believing that he had disgusted Watson with his overtures, was too horrible to contemplate, and when Holmes was not present, there was too much room in Watson’s head for questions. The ease with which Watson had received Holmes’ affection for those first few moments was replaced by gnawing uncertainty.

After a long day catching up with the matters of his practice, Watson was sitting in his consulting room. He heard Holmes hurrying up the stairs followed by a few noises from the sitting room. Watson rose, went to the adjoining door, and pushed it open, but Holmes was not there.

“Holmes?”

“Yes?”

Watson turned. Holmes had come across the landing and was standing in the other doorway. They stared at one another. Watson had felt the need to see Holmes so urgently, but now that those dark eyes were on him, his mouth was dry, and he forgot everything he had imagined he would say.

“Are you quite recovered?” Holmes asked, his voice gentle.

“Oh, yes. Much better. Thank you.”

“Excellent.”

Watson walked to the window and looked out over the street. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the other night.”

“Watson, please, if you would be so kind—”

Holmes broke off when Watson let out a huff of frustration. This would be much more difficult if Holmes was still intent on pretending nothing had occurred between them.

“Hear me out. I think that my reaction led you to believe—that is, I’m afraid you might think that I… well, that I was repulsed… or upset… in some way. By your… But on the contrary, I…” Watson knew that he was rambling, but he could not seem to force the words out. “I was surprised—I won’t deny that. But it was surprise alone that made me… I was shocked, but not shocked by you, shocked by _myself_. By the… immediacy and the… vehemence… of my reaction. If you see what I—”

Watson could hear Holmes approaching behind him. He felt Holmes’ hand sliding across his stomach and Holmes’ head coming to rest on his shoulder. “My dear Watson,” he whispered. It made Watson’s heart race. Then Holmes let out little laugh. “Would you care for something to eat?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Holmes pulled away and grabbed Watson’s hand, leading him to the sitting room and pushing him down onto the sofa. The table in front of the sofa looked exactly as it had three nights ago, right down to the bowl of strawberries.

“Holmes, this isn’t necessary.”

“Ah, but you see, I’ve figured out what I was doing wrong.” Holmes snatched a slice of bread from the plate on the table and stepped to the fireplace. “I believe I was placing the bread too close to the flame. And then, perhaps more importantly, I was not attentive enough in monitoring its progress.” As Holmes spoke, he stuck the bread onto his foil and held it up to the fire. “You see, it seems to go very slowly, and I would be fooled every time, thinking it was nowhere near ready, and would cease to pay close attention. You have seen the results of this haphazard method.”

“Holmes,” Watson said. He was smiling, but he was growing impatient.

“I would think that I would have to move the bread closer to reach the desired result, but that’s precisely when I pushed it too close and then, failure.” Holmes looked at the bread and turned it around to toast the other side. “But now I realize if I arrange everything just so and do not allow myself to become frustrated or distracted, I will not miss my window of opportunity. It’s the last few moments where the timing is most critical.” Holmes withdrew the epée from the fireplace and examined the bread impaled on it. Satisfied, he smiled at Watson. He leaned over and allowed the toast to slide off onto a plate. A beautifully golden slice of toast. With a ragged hole in its center.

“It’s perfect,” Watson said. “Now sit down.”

Holmes came to the sofa but sat at a distance. He took a strawberry from the bowl, rolled it in the sugar, and offered it to Watson. He had a smile on his face, but Watson saw that his hand was shaking slightly. Watson did not think he had ever seen Holmes nervous before. Ignoring the fruit, Watson moved close and placed a feather-light kiss on Holmes’ lips. Holmes eyes stayed closed after Watson pulled away. “My dear Watson,” he said with a sigh.

“Yes, my dear Holmes,” Watson answered, trying to make the innocent words provocative. He was not the actor Holmes was—could not control his voice so well, but his meaning was obvious. Holmes’ eyes sprang open, questioning. Watson responded by leaning close and kissing him, this time more forcefully. Holmes groaned, and his hand wrapped around Watson’s neck. Watson grazed his tongue across Holmes’ lips, making him groan again. Watson found the sound irresistible.

Holmes pulled his hand off of Watson’s neck and turned his face to the side. “Watson, perhaps you should eat something. You haven’t been—”

“I don’t want anything to eat,” Watson answered. He touched Holmes’ cheek, feeling pleased that Holmes’ eyes immediately fell closed, and kissed him again. The angle was awkward, and Watson shifted his body, pulling Holmes with him, so that they were more comfortably arranged. He bent for another deep kiss. Holmes’ hands flew up to grip Watson’s shoulders, then just as suddenly were gone again. He placed one hand on Watson’s chest, preventing him from getting as close as he wanted. Suddenly Watson realized that Holmes’ interruptions were all in an effort to maintain control of himself. Was it possible he still feared Watson’s reaction to his advances? How could he doubt Watson’s intent now?

His hand still holding Watson back, Holmes took a shuddery breath. “I was not going to—”

Watson cut him off with another kiss. He would simply have to force things past the point where Holmes was able to control himself.

Holmes let out a pleased little hum, but he pushed at Watson’s sternum and tried again. “I don’t want—”

“But I _do_ want,” Watson said. “Don’t worry about offending me, Holmes. I may not have experience with this, exactly, but I’m no blushing virgin.”

Watson pulled Holmes’ arm from between them. Very slowly and deliberately, Watson guided Holmes’ hand. He set it on his own neck and placed his hand overtop, gently squeezing to make it clear that that hand should remain where it was. Looking into the bottomless brown of Holmes’ eyes, he smiled, inching closer until their mouths met. Holmes moaned, and his fingers slid up into Watson’s hair. Watson touched Holmes’ chest, skimming his hand over smooth cotton and buttons until he reached Holmes’ belt, then tugged at the fabric.

Once Holmes’ shirt was free of his trousers, Watson slipped his hand up under it to feel the heat of skin over lean muscle. Holmes sighed at the touch, but Watson was not satisfied. He slid down to the floor and knelt so he could use both hands, unbuttoning Holmes’ shirt from the bottom, pressing his lips to each inch of flesh as it was exposed. Holmes sat up to allow Watson to remove the shirt completely, whimpering when Watson bent to suck at his nipple.

“Watson,” Holmes whispered with a breathless laugh as Watson kissed a path up his chest and neck. “I never imagined—”

Watson plunged his tongue into Holmes’ mouth to silence him and was rewarded with another whimper.

Watson was a bit anxious about what he was planning to do next but knew he must show no reluctance. Holmes would take note and become wary and solicitous once again, so, without any hesitation whatsoever, Watson placed his hand carefully over the prominent bulge in Holmes’ trousers. The effect was immediate and gratifying. Holmes gasped and pushed his hips up into Watson’s touch, then grabbed Watson’s head with both hands and kissed him with unrestrained passion.

Struggling to open Holmes’ flies, Watson felt Holmes’ rapid breathing against his neck. Watson wrapped his hand around Holmes’ cock, and Holmes moaned, long and low. His fingers bored into Watson’s shoulders. Watson tried a few tentative strokes, and Holmes cried out, his body taut. Holmes pushed Watson away, startling him, but Holmes was only kicking free of his trousers. He reached for Watson’s buttons, and between them, they wrestled Watson’s clothing off. Holmes pulled him down onto the sofa. Holmes’ strong body beneath him stole Watson’s breath. Holmes grabbed his hips, thrusting insistently, sliding his cock against Watson’s. The feeling was dizzying. Watson forced himself to keep his eyes open so he could watch Holmes’ face. His expression, usually so guarded, was completely open, his lips parted as he gasped for breath, his watchful eyes shut. He bit his lip as he came, his fingers pressing Watson’s flesh hard enough to leave bruises. Watson let his eyes fall closed, feeling so close himself.

“John,” Holmes whispered, and the foreignness of the name in his mouth made Watson force his eyes open again. The look on Holmes face was remarkable, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth swollen by their rough kisses. Debauched, beautiful. Perfect. Holmes kissed him, pulling him close with that unrelenting grasp on his hips. Holmes started moving beneath him. The skin of their bellies pressed on Watson’s cock, hot and slick. Watson came, crying out, every muscle in his body straining at the force of it. When he was through, he opened his eyes and looked at Holmes.

“Good Lord,” Watson said, feeling stunned.

Holmes laughed and caught him when he collapsed, exhausted. Watson’s body was weak, but it was so very different from the weakness of his illness. He felt at ease, contented in a way that he had not felt in a very long time. Holmes’ arms clasped around his back, and a lazy smile spread over Watson’s face.

“Watson,” Holmes said, still breathless.

“Hmm?” Watson murmured, kissing Holmes’ neck beneath his ear. He decided at that moment—he must accept that Holmes would likely never stop talking, even in moments like this.

“I’m afraid your toast is cold.”

The End


End file.
